The Power of Whisky
by TheSoliloquy
Summary: A close-call for one of the group and Ryan Nichols suddenly finds himself contemplating the irrational fear of death... Season 1, AR filler


Ryan would like to think he's a vital part of the resistance. In a way he is, being the only V of the small group. But now, sat in the church with the others, weary-eyed and heavy-shouldered from the arduous day, he can't help but hate himself. If he couldn't protect even those in the group- his friends, his comrades- how could he hope to protect the human race? Ryan Nichols hates failure, and the sight of crisp white bandages can do nothing but mock his weakness.

_ ~ The V is strong, an agile blur of angry limbs whirling and twisting, evading their somewhat feeble attempts to subdue her- no, not 'her', **it**. Even Hobbes' expertise is dismissed with a powerful head butt, and both Ryan and Jack are sent reeling in a single swipe. He's still fixing his brain from the blow when the V has Erica by the throat, squeezing slowly, slowly… He's still unscrambling his thoughts as Hobbes leaps back to his feet, goes to Erica's aid, and pulls the V back. He's still finding his feet as the V turns the tables on the mercenary, slamming him into the ground. He's still confused as the V plunges its clawed nails into Hobbes' stomach. As Hobbes yells out… ~  
_

Stupid.

_~Screaming.~_

Stupid Ryan.

_~Agonised.~_

Ryan's better than that, this he knows, but the years posing as a human have certainly taken their toll; his gears are rusty, his skills in combat a mere shadow of what they once were. They were better than most humans', perhaps, but not good enough to equal his own species, his own kind.

_~ His head is as clear as day as both he and Jack surge forward, wrench the V away from Hobbes, and to his mind the guttural, strangled moan emitted from the ex-SAS as the claws slither free is like a foghorn; Hobbes is left gasping like a fish out of water, eyes rolling. Together, Ryan and Jack throw the V into a corner. Ryan aims his gun… ~  
_

Funny, how he hates his own species, his own kind.

_~Bang, bang.~_

Erica is sat beside Hobbes on the sofa, one leg up, cheek on hand and elbow on backrest, watching Hobbes closely. It seems to Ryan that she's watching his face, perhaps waiting for the tiniest grimace or wince to use as an excuse to get him to lie back down. Of course, she won't get so much as a twitch, but despite this will pursue.

_ ~~ Erica's quick to pull off her jacket; her movements are fluid as she crouches down beside Hobbes, and Ryan envies her of her steady-head as she presses it firmly against the wounds, barely flinching as blood coats both hands, nor as Hobbes groans, feet twitching.  
_

_"We can't stay here." He hears his own voice say. ~  
_

Erica is tough, that much is obvious to anyone: a female FBI agent, high in rank… _and_ the mother of an adolescent boy. She was sensible, knew straight away why they couldn't remain there- after all, Hobbes is the most wanted man by the FBI and the Visitors. They couldn't have rolled him into a hospital, and they certainly couldn't have just left him there to die. Yet... yes, Erica is tough, but also a mother; if she died, what would become of her son? What despair would follow? She would not want that. No, she's afraid to die.

_ ~~ Erica sprints to the car- says something about starting it up- as Ryan and Jack help Hobbes from the floor, take his weight between them and begin to follow after Erica. To his credit, Hobbes somehow manages to keep his legs working, however much energy it drains. They set him in the back of the car, slumped in the corner seat with his temple against the window, eyes closed as he tries to methodically regulate his breathing. Ryan climbs into the passenger seat; the eyes and ears for Erica as she drives wildly back to the church. Jack stays in the back with Hobbes, keeping him conscious and the pressure constant on his stomach._

"_So, I, er, find these cars to be a little on the rough side, don't you?"_

"_Hmph."_

_His techniques are odd, but Hobbes remains awake throughout. ~  
_

As for Jack… Well, a priest was never what Ryan would have predicted; he was the most unlikely member of the resistance. Maybe Jack had shown his true quality, but now his eyes flicker a little too frequently over to Hobbes, seeming to assess his condition and reassure himself that the mercenary was still living, before again staring deep into his wine- he has yet to take a sip. It's almost as if he'd never expected there to be casualties, even after Georgie's death. In the midst of questioning his own faith, his mental state was unstable. No, he's afraid to die.

_ ~~ They burst through the door with haste, Jack trailing behind with Hobbes. Maps, weapons, bags and an ashtray go clattering to the floor as Ryan sweeps the table clear, while Erica rummages through cupboards for equipment. Hobbes is pale as he lies down, the beginnings of stubble on his face suddenly prominent as the colour slowly leaks from his skin. Ryan seizes a pair of scissors and for a moment the look of desire for a snarky comment passes over Hobbes' face, but fades quickly with a wince as Ryan cuts through his black t-shirt, peeling back the material to reveal the narrow and ugly gorges. It doesn't take an artist to imagine the scar he'll be left with. Erica is almost as pale as Hobbes as she takes over from Jack, brows knitted together as her hands are bathed in blood with a miniscule squelch. ~  
_

But Hobbes, mysterious Kyle Hobbes… Here's a man who's been through it all, who's _lived _through it all, only to be told by Ryan that, in fact, he _hadn't_. Hobbes is not afraid to die; why else would he plunge recklessly into sticky situations? He has the uncanny ability to emerge from a fight without so much as a scratch- though... perhaps, the luck of the devil has run out for him? Ryan had always thought of Hobbes to be invincible- yet here he was, injured after saving Erica's life.

_ ~~ Hobbes' breathing hitches dangerously as Jack stitches up the wounds as quickly and efficiently as he can, determined to avoid any more blood loss- Erica, on the other hand, is determined not to watch what he's doing, instead keeping her gaze fixed on Hobbes' pained expression, a comforting hand on his bare shoulder. Jack ties off the last stitch, and turns away to put the needle down as Erica picks up a bottle of whisky and some cloth, ignoring Ryan's enquiring eyes. Hobbes' hiss is barely contained as she dabs the whisky-soaked cloth over the ugly stitches, and now even Jack is alarmed to see the Australian's head loll, eyes closed and breathing slowed dramatically._

"_Hobbes? Keep your eyes open, Hobbes." Erica begins to show her first inkling of panic. "_**Kyle**_!" ~  
_

Yet, despite having been clawed to within an inch of his life, he's simply sat asleep on a sofa with an empty bottle of _whisky_ in hand. Sure, he's ill and looks it, with ashen skin and an unhealthy pallor- almost yellow in the lamplight. And sure, a sheen of sweat glistens on his skin... But Hobbes is tough, hard, seasoned. Perhaps to him, something as grievous as a wound such as near-disembowelment is nothing to be scared of. He may not like Hobbes, but he knows they're lucky to have him. Without him, they'd never have come this far. He doesn't fear death; he _is_ practically invincible.

_ ~~ Hobbes' eyes flicker lethargically open._

"_Still here." He murmurs, to the sound of relieved sighs from the other three. Carefully, he lifts his head and frowns, glancing around, "Done?"_

_Erica confirms, and without missing a beat holds up her hands to stop him from sitting.  
_

"_You don't want to do that, Hobbes." She warns him, "You've lost a lot of blood."_

_Hobbes simply replies that he's had worse, ignoring Jack's unbelieving 'you've-had-worse-than-claws-plunged-into-your-stomach?' look and swinging his legs down to the floor._

"_Can I have that?" He asks, pointing to the whisky, then taking it without waiting for an answer, "Thanks."_

_He slides off the table, and as he stands sways slightly before righting himself with a helping hand on his elbow from Jack. Picking up his coat, he trudges over to the sofa and sinks down onto it. For a moment the three merely watch him- before Erica smiles to herself, shrugs to Ryan and Jack, and picks up a bundle of bandages, walking over to where Hobbes sits sipping the bottle of whisky. ~  
_

But it begs the question, that if even the toughest and most seasoned of them could be almost fatally wounded, what could become of the rest? The power of whisky may be enough to sort Hobbes out, but even alcohol can't resurrect the dead. Nobody wants to cry before a coffin, nor do they want to be inside one.

.


End file.
